The Body Demotic: Day 7

So yesterday, though nobody would know it to look at me, nobody would know it without going after me with a needle and a fine-toothed comb, was a hard, heartbreaking sort of day.  I’m not dating anyone, though, naturally, I kinda sorta thought I was.  And I kinda sorta am.  Still.  But not really.  I can’t claim the title.  Wouldn’t hold up in court. And that’s as much clarity as anyone can give me on the situation.  Wait it out until you don’t feel like waiting anymore.  Like, what, what does that actually mean?  Care about me until it becomes a problem for you.  What’s it actually require of me?  A woman with broader shoulders and some sense would say, okay, halfway is not enough, we’re just going to hurt ourselves on the sharp edges of this. But I’ve pecked at crumbs and ash my whole life when it comes to affairs of the heart, so this understanding that the porch light is going to be left on for me, always a dish of food and water at the door doesn’t trigger the negative reaction that it should.  Even if it’s clear I’m never getting in the house. I think, well, there’s food here. That’s not nothing.  And nothing ties me down.  I can keep my own devices as it pleases me.  It’s what I wanted, right? It’s everything I’ve ever believed, that’s all.  The best relationships are those conducted entirely by post?

And I thought I took it in stride, accepting the ambiguity of it all, the inevitability of my hope being broken down into a sticky sort of powder, until I realized, about halfway through the evening that I was acting like a teenage maniac.  A stupid, stupid maniac who is going to regret her choices when they spin around and smack her in the face.  Emailing the RP’er like some kind of ridiculous swanning princess who thinks she can set a world down for two years and pick it back up and find it entirely as it was.  That was never going to happen and I knew that.  But still, I was free! I was uncommitted.  I was not on a path towards anything or anyone.  I was officially and am officially single.  Sort of.  Only nothing’s changed.  And it was only ever going to be about me.

I don’t really feel comfortable writing it out, this thing in medias res which might well be speculated upon and swiftly deciphered if anyone were of a mind. I suspect they’re not, but nevertheless, I feel bad enough about it that I want the shame shield to hang up like a Great Wall of China (and not some evil, orange-hued paltry attempt at nothing) between us.  Sit down with me and a cup of coffee, glass of wine, and I’ll tell the rest.  Suffice it to say that it all had to be entirely as it was, but my own good intentions done effed me again.  The world has changed much since all these trains hit the station at the same time, and I am certainly not the soul to demand anything of anyone, certainly not punctuality.

It’s just going to be disappointing is all.  Not evil.  It’s not evil.  Not yet.

Given these truish facts, I am endeavoring to continue on something I know is benefiting me – my small, paltry attempt at getting this body on the same page as my mind.

Every Sugary Desire


I am now, apparently, considered known by a few rubberies.



  • My hands hurt today, stiff and they just have no interest in typing any further, but the law is the law.  So we are going to fight our way to five hundred words by emptying our brainpan and speaking/writing in the third person.
  • I am keen to write a poem, after I got an email which is from the chapbook competition I entered last year and which mentioned one of their judges this year is Jeffrey McDaniel.  Jeffrey McDaniel is one of my all-time favorite modern poets.  But, as I think I learned through the process of submitting last time, they’re really looking for good spoken word poetry and I don’t think mine bites in the way they’re looking for it to bite.  It should bite harder, leave limbs and minds gangrenous and ripe for amputation.  It should have a power base that glows red-hot.  It should fuck shit up.  To win at that contest, anyway, and mine does other more subtle magics.  So it would need to be new poetry.  And, too,  I think if I were to just sit down right now and try and pull together some lines they would all be about metaphors about Donald Trump’s comb-over and Twitter’s racial and gender politics and right now, there’s not a person in all the known universes who needs that poem to exist.  It’s the poem four or ten back in line from that one that needs to exist so…I am going to have to break the seal.
  • Going to try and watch Stranger Things since people are excited about that.  Not going to watch it while I’m alone in the dark here, though.  I need this brain to function a bit longer.
  • I am completely confused about work.  Like.  Confused.  I don’t know what to do now, but continue as I mentioned yesterday, with this application.  Everything is as was described, and yet, there’s this odd spasm of delusion that snapped in front of my eyes today.   If I back off of this opportunity because I feel, emotionally, for my boss and the situation, and the situation does not improve and the opportunity disappears and I’m fuuu-uucked?  That would be bad.
  • I continue to have really great luck with Lyft drivers.  They’re all considerate, quick, and pleasant people.  Don’t make me talk too much, totally comfortable to talk to for the precisely negligible amount I care to talk.
  • Seeing my mother in the morning.  Will distract her by talking about the RNC and Donald Trump and all manner of inane but true real life happenstances in the political sphere then will run off to the frock shop.
  •   Dinner tonight was pasta, late.  Trying to do something, however small, that feels like it’s a gift to the body.  Trying to be kind and generous in the backwards way that requires saying no and focusing elsewhere rather than capitulating to every sugary desire.
  • It tried to rain for a bit, but that’s done nothing to kill this heat.


A Woman of Negotiable Virtue


Oh, Fallen London, you are really the swell and dandiest, particularly with your free and easy gifts of the titles for posts.

I have about ten tabs open and I am feeling more than a bit overwhelmed, digitally, and in the good old analog braincase.  Let’s do this, please.

Thoughts and feelings, thoughts and feelings!  I now, essentially, have a second job.  With the caveat that I have to explain to my current boss tomorrow that halving my hours means I need a second job and that I’ve got one, at least for the summer and I need to shift things around to accommodate it.   I think this is fine.  I can just work full days there 3 days a week and work a day and a half at the new one.  It’s stressful, I suppose, for all of us, and I’m half afraid that she’d say, oh, I intended to put you back on full-time June 1, but I don’t financially get that as even being possible, at all, so…I am looking after me. She could also say, well, that’s too much of an inconvenience for me, so goodbye you, which is not really likely, but everything feels within the realm of possibility these days.

It’s only retail, it’s only about 25 hours a week with about what you’d expect to make doing retail.  It’s a stopgap measure to keep me in food and drink and health insurance.  This is not the excitement about it.  The excitement is it’s working in my mentor’s boutique clothing store, they trust me enough that it’s was about 10 minutes of chatter before we started laying out schedules.  They also want to talk about me helping with social media/copywriting…some things that I’m interested in doing anyway.  I know these ladies and I know their vibe, I know the town, and they care about me and my life, the role writing plays, and even the fact that I’m kind of at a mental crossroads.  They get that this is rough.   I feel immediately like, oh, wow, I can’t break this.  I can just be carried by it until I get a clue.

It’s also rough because once this all gets conferred and confirmed, I can’t tell my parents.  I can’t because we’ve agreed in the great High Council of this house that they don’t need to know, the little sister, the aunt, either.  This would only lead to histrionics and heaving sighs and phone calls about if we’re going to die in the gutter and other things I am starting to believe are not exactly likely. It is, in fact, our lives rather than anyone else’s and their freak-out doesn’t change the bank balance and perhaps, it would be good to be able to say, yes, this happened, but we got it covered.

But for now, no telling, no facebooking, certainly not until the current boss is made to know the plans as I see them.  I feel shitty because I’m enforcing this boundary of addressing my needs rather than martyring myself – the usual act of comfort.  I also feel shitty because this is a new schedule change I have to adjust to, a new place I need to make sure I’m giving energy and attention.

Overall, though.  This is good.



So this is my forewarning.  I don’t know…really, how the posting is going to after Wednesday for at least ten days.  My laptop’s in no shape to travel and the phone is just really not comfortable to write something of that length.  So I don’t know if there will be a Saturday night post between Minnesota and Seattle’s trips.  I will absolutely try, I can offer you that much.

In Seattle, notes as best I can to remember the most crucial moments of laughing until I physically hurt.


It’s 10:30p.m.  I am not going to go get the leftover coffee I brought home and drink it.  Better to be exhausted and sleep than ratcheted up one or five more notches and crash.

It’s 11:24p.m. and I am still 400 words off the mark.  I do feel really grateful today.  I feel grateful that my feet and hands felt 50% less weird than yesterday and I’m puzzling out a few of the things I am doing to make my body so miserable.  Not all, but some.  I am really grateful that my cousin will come and have coffee for me and speak to me for an hour and 15 minutes about the broken record of my life.  She will listen and soak up every word and piece it back together and say it feels like this is all about safety for you or something else that makes perfect sense to me and makes me feel like I’m not a child.   Suddenly, I am capable of sitting still for that long and just listening and talking and not having any sort of panic or thought about anything but being a part of that symbiosis.  That was great.  I am grateful for the whole relaxed afternoon that followed.  I’m grateful for my thirst.  I’m grateful for other people’s lists so I don’t have to remember everything.  I’m grateful for extemporaneous wit.  I’m grateful for wheat being cut away from the chaff.  I’m grateful for the laugh.  I am grateful that she has bought S. and is asking me how to read it so that I can be grateful to have someone to talk to about it.

I’m grateful that I did not eat through the pavement today.  I am grateful I didn’t swallow a pinch of salt for all the salt that spilt.  I am grateful for the memories being bandied about on the mystical dream house my grandparents lived in.  I am grateful it might be allowed to stand.

I’m grateful for the distance on someone I need distance on.  I’m grateful that I don’t have to take the first beautiful that comes my way, nor the second.  I’m grateful for another old man to chase.  I’m grateful for my google-fu and my hunger for shadows, Swedish, younger than they were, and entirely ill.  I’m grateful for being able to push through when my brain wants to deny me my power.  I’m grateful that I can learn and know and be a part of these giant cultural touchstones in my own time, because they’re flying too fast and furious these days.



Weird how a day can be so positive in terms of what’s been accomplished and because of hormones and other body stuff, it can also feel so negative and bleck and gross and stop.

Less than good things:

Feeling panicky in the car – mostly from not eating at it being 1:30p.m., but it got a bit further out of whack than it needed to.  As a passenger, too.
Feeling anxious about everything.  Inane stuff that I’m not going to do the honor of going into here, just suffice it to say I can’t live my life worrying if I’ve suddenly stopped being able to swallow liquids.  I haven’t.  I’m fine, I am just tormenting myself because things are okay and this little sore throat/odd taste in my mouth is not apocalypse now.
Still not knowing what the heck to do about work.
Realizing I have yet again double-booked myself.
Losing a package of ham somewhere that I bought two days ago.

Good things:

Feeling shifty and angsty about having to drive to writers group after being so panicky in the car earlier, and somehow figuring out some combination of self-consolation and bravery and intrinsic motivation and music and daylight and distraction that made it possible to spend the 25 minutes it takes to get to group.
I actually enjoyed group – both from the kind comments I received on the crappy little skintag of a story I submitted and because the people are likeable and care about what I’m going through in life.
Making myself put on makeup before the group and having that brief, subtle moment in the mirror, of, oh, hey, you, girl whose face I like.
Thinking maybe I can keep going and see this story through to the end.
Checking in with my mentor who I’ll see in person this weekend
Getting invited to a party with the ol’ market pals even if it’s a goodbye party.
Despite feeling hormonal and wanky and really self-pitying, I spent a half an hour on the stationary bike and was none of the aforementioned things about it.
I made polenta cakes and had tomato sauce and spicy sausage and more of that cucumber apple salad for lunch.
Food is getting tracked.

There is more good than ill.  It’s just the brain getting caught up in this very specific dance that dizzies me, and it’s the dizziness of trying to right myself that freaks me out.  It’s hormones, it’s that time, it’s that place, it’s just…it was pretty intense today.   But even so, we lived.  I said, it can be miserable and hard and you can have freak-out upon freak-out, but you’re going to get there safely.  And that was true.  That was a promise I kept.

So.  Yeah.  Now, a bath and some sleepytime tea.  I need to get out of my own way and start thinking ahead about positive things – Seattle, pink hair, back on an even keel, getting this story published (hah), some handsome lad who can spell and use commonsense grammar and syntax, falling asleep drunk and full of chocolate.



Sundowner, You


I have nearly more creativity right now, at this point in time, than I can physically handle.
It’s such an odd thing.  I have to embrace it rather than fear it.  I want to supreme my heart into a hundred little segments and set them all out to do the work.

The muse is in residence.  We are having tea, or she is having whatever comes out of an empty tea-kettle when it is poured at a party of the imagination.  I am having wine, sweet as fresh fruit.  I am watching my calories.  I am stretching my legs out.  I am greeting the sun, saluting the moon.

I am living the Faulkner line:  “A story is in you.  It has to come out.”  It feels as though all the stories I’ve ever half-daydreamed a setting for are pulling themselves toward me. They see, perhaps, that I have the time for them that I’ve never had before.  Exercise is helping my head, and unfortunately, I have hours and hours now. Not really, of course,  some of this time needs to be put to use figuring out how I am going to pay to keep myself alive.  But for the time being, I am a mason jar of fireflies.  All the while, I am putting the story into me as I re-read and re-read the book.  I need to keep finishing it so that I can start working on it, which can only be explained by reading it and I can’t give up even a single iota of it until I’ve wrapped my arms around it fully.   Till I can crow about it and sing about it and not have a whole other truth yet to be revealed on a final pass.  I can only say that it is a doorway to me and even if I have to keep passing through and finding myself in the backyard, eventually, I will get in this house.  I will

I know it’s weird.  I gotta go weird for a while.  My weird bucket has been empty for too long and there’s a lot of weird in the well.

Real life:
My sister’s boyfriend, intending to be helpful, being urgent as he can be when he thinks there’s an opportunity ripe on the vine sent me a link to a public radio writing job.  A journalist’s job.  Perhaps if I wasn’t so chock full of…everything.  Not in a manic way, just in a…oh, shit, I love writing and reading and I’ve played so hard at not having time or space for it and now, even out of terrible circumstances, I’ve been handed them back as a gift?…sort of way.  Keeping having to find ways to be grateful for his interest and support, but not express my bemusement at his high expectations of me.  My poor little niecelings and/or nephews.  I will give them an excess of ice cream and tell them unsettling tales of the sea and perhaps let them play with my children who will by then have mastered all of the Archer’s Tales.

Ah, yes.  Real.  Life.

I am not going to be afraid to be inspired because it might make a hard life harder.  I am going to be afraid of fearing inspiration because it has already made a hard life unlivable.

Tony Danza

weird-statues-2-1507518Typing away.  So, yeah, last night I kind of fucked up and in trying to gather quotations for this writing project idea thing…I ended up reading the whole sequence of posts around Mr. Confusion and last year.  You know, that time when I wrote my heart out to this guy or at least a very literary and clever facsimile of my heart and things were weird.  We had this very intense back and forth for a while, then he disappeared for a while, and then he was back for a second but told me that he needed like…a real girl…or whatever and this motivated me to say, hey, you want to meet – let’s meet.  And that seemed like a good thing and then we had this nice, not excessively or problematically awkward date where I kinda thought he was kind of cute and and then…we never talked again.

That was a fun time to relive.  Fuck. Progress? Is there any progress in my heart whatsoever on that front?  I don’t…honestly think so.

Today might require bullets.

  • Having gone over to my parents when my sister did – she’s staying over to drive them to the airport tomorrow morning – like at 3:30a.m.  I basically went there because I wanted to raid the larder and I was 99% sure that they had a frozen pizza in their freezer and I sort of walked my arse off so that I could go.  Walked a ways beforehand around the subdivision listening to music mostly with that pizza in mind.  I’d basically had like rice and broth earlier and coffee to keep all those calories controlled and nope.  No pizza available to poor little me.  So instead, ate some chips and guac (very nearly too much) but was able to cut it just below the quota with that walking and call it good.  I don’t feel hungry, but I would, I think, like some wine.  I kind of feel like I am going to buy a bottle tomorrow for all that writing I want to do.
  • Watched an episode of Monarch of the Glen because my mother has decided it is the best show ever and I was briefly into it.  It’s a BBC dramedy and that’s my catnip.  I will probably try and watch more, but maybe just from the episode I saw – so the start of season 3, I guess.
  • Finished this Dragon Age: Inquisition run.  I have feelings.   Still.  Again.  More.  Oh, darling babby Solas. I want to keep writing fanfic that is not useful to anyone but me with my very specific tastes.  Not planning to restart another playthrough, but I want to find whatever what I can to extend my mental holiday in Orlais.
  • Also got to have some house of solitary pleasures time – watching the Oscars and bleating happily with the lovely friends on Skype about it all.  Golly, they make me so happy.

Also: because we want it written down, immortalized in script forever, Fuck Sam Smith.